


Got My Blinders On

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Blindfolds, Light Bondage, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Dean gets an itch he just can’t scratch on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got My Blinders On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raecorban (Leath)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=raecorban+%28Leath%29).



> Thanks to Lily (drownedinblissfulconfusion/tundraeternal) as always for the awesome beta job and for going above and beyond to help me end this thing. Dude, you rock.
> 
> Inspired by accidentally sitting on this (and it's what most of the story takes place on, if you need an image): http://www.liberator.com/black-label-esse.html and not knowing what it was, and by weatherers and her fantastic anons.

Sometimes Dean gets an itch he just can’t scratch on his own.

That’s when he tells Sam he’s heading out to a bar and that he doesn’t need company. That’s when he pulls out the tattered printout from the special pocket in the Impala’s trunk.

It’s a photocopy that a woman handed him discreetly years ago, when he and John were hunting separately and Sam was at Stanford and Dean was the loneliest and the most free he’d ever been.

Its print is small, cramped, with lines of text running slightly crooked across the page. The photocopy is many generations removed from the original and there are spots and lines and splatters of ink. It’s creased, wrinkled, and stained by any number of substances. It’s torn in a corner from when he’d hidden it too well and needed to yank it from where it had slipped, and the back has a phone number that’s been crossed out and blurred with moisture.

There are handwritten additions, annotations, and lines that have been completely crossed out.

It’s a list of places and times, residential addresses and backrooms of clubs and days of the week and month.

Staring at the sheet, Dean scans it carefully. He knows most of it by heart; many nights he pulls it out, opens it up, and tries to convince himself he doesn’t want what he knows he needs.

Most nights he succeeds, and spends sleepless hours hating the feeling growing inside him.

But he can’t keep putting it off forever, and eventually he breaks down.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The fifteenth entry on the list is an address in a suburb of Jefferson City, Missouri, just thirty miles from where Sam and Dean are hunting the ghost of a farmer killed in a thresher accident.

Dean runs his finger across the text, thinking. If he leaves now, he can get there by 9 and spend a few hours before Sam will start to wonder.

He turns to Sam. “Hey, I’m heading out. Don’t wait up.”

Sam looks up, brow creasing. “Yeah? Uh, you want company?” It’s what he always says when Dean needs time alone. Dean wonders for a second if maybe his brother knows his secret and just plays along with the script every time, but pushes that from his mind.

“Nah, I’m good. Have some fun while I’m gone.” He waggles his eyebrows and dredges up a grin from somewhere. “I think they’ve got Casa Erotica here if you want to enjoy your private time.”

Sam tosses a pillow at his head. “Gross, dude.” He turns back to his laptop, already engrossed. “Don’t stay out too late. We gotta finish this case up in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean’s already got his hand on the doorknob and his keys out of his pocket. “Don’t work too hard, Sammy.” He closes the door behind him and climbs into the car.

As he drives, he feels freer than he has in weeks. He’s got a goal and he’s got an itch to scratch, and he’s going to get it taken care of tonight.

He drives up and down the block a few times when he gets to the neighborhood, turning into the cul-de-sac and examining closely the one-story houses that line Spalding Road.

Number 172 is no different than the rest: one sprawling story of brick with tall windows, wide grassy lawn, pop-up camper parked alongside the garage. It’s no different except for the wide driveway filled with cars and pick-up trucks that spill out onto the sides of the road. The shades are drawn, thick enough that there are no shadows to hint at the activity inside, but light trickles out from the edges.

Dean’s heart is pounding in his ears as he pulls to a stop a few blocks down, far enough away that his car doesn’t look like part of the group gathered at 172. He sits in the car for a few minutes, willing his heart to slow and his cold sweat to dry.

He could just turn around, go back to the motel, tell Sam he struck out with a chick in a bar and laugh it off. He could just go to bed and lie there for hours, skin prickling with need, or...

He opens the door and steps out, rubbing shaking palms on his thighs. He’s Dean Winchester, damn it. He’s faced down ghosts, monsters, and the devil himself. He’s not going to let a 1960s ranch-style house scare him off.

He stands at the door, wavering.

He’s made it this far. He’s past the driveway, on the stoop, and he can hear noise inside: laughter, music, footsteps, but underneath that a low current of moans and slaps that draws him in closer, and he finds himself reaching for the knocker.

Just before his fingers touch the metal, the door swings open.

He steps back, off the porch, ready to bolt, but a light touch on the arm stops him.

“Hi there.” A woman stands in front of him, smiling. “You’re here for the party, right?” She’s short and wide, with a toothy grin and smooth dark skin. Her long brown hair is shining under the porchlight and cascading over her shoulders. In one hand she holds a plastic cup.

Tucked under her other arm is a wooden paddle studded with metal pegs. He stares at it for a moment, before a particularly loud moan from inside shocks him from his silence.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. I- I read about it. On a list.” He’s babbling, but the woman’s smile only widens.

“First time, then?” She nudges his shoulder and guides him inside, and he follows, glad of the instruction. “That’s fine. We love new faces around here.”

Dean looks around the room. It’s a traditional midwestern living room, with couches and end tables and a widescreen TV mounted over a fireplace. Traditional, that is, except for the fifty-odd people in various states of undress milling about.

Dean glances around quickly, feeling somehow overdressed and underdressed simultaneously. There are naked women, sure, but also women in corsets and stockings, bras and thongs, makeup and heels and full military dress. There are men in nothing but handcuffs and gags, in kilts and boots, and even in lacy panties. Dean stares as a woman walks by holding a leash guiding a man on his hands and knees.

The woman chuckles. “Welcome to the Haven. I’m Sandra.” She holds out a hand.

Dean takes it automatically, shaking it. “Dean.”

“You know the rules of these things, Dean?” She holds out a crystal and he leans over. “This will check you for intent and disease, and tell me what you need.” She presses the crystal to his forehead.

Dean closes his eyes as the force rushes through him, a cool tingle running from his forehead to his toes. Images flash before his eyes; he flushes as they flood past him. Every time he’s done this, come to one of these events, they’ve gotten clearer. He knows what he wants, and so does the spell.

Sandra is smiling at him when he opens his eyes a moment later. “I think we can find you what you’re looking for tonight, Dean. Come with me.”

She leads him to a side room with cubbyholes one one side and cabinets lining the other. “Leave your things there. You won’t need your clothes tonight.” Her voice has taken on a commanding tone. “Then come over here.”

Dean strips, fingers shaking just as little as he calms at the order. It gets easier to reach this mental place every time he does this; he wonders if that’s good or bad, but he pushes that thought aside.

Sandra opens a cabinet once Dean is standing bare beside her. He resists the urge to cover himself, feeling exposed and shivering despite the warmth of the room.

She pulls out a length of cloth. “Dean, I need you to close your eyes.”

He hesitates.

“You can let go, Dean. Isn’t that why you’re here?” She lowers the cloth and steps closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You know these places. I could see it in your mind. Everyone here’s intentions are known. You’ll be safe.” Her voice is comforting, almost motherly. “But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” She starts to turn, reaching for the cabinet.

“No!” says Dean, grabbing her wrist lightly. “I want this.” He knows that if he leaves now, if he gives in to his panic and nerves, he may never get the courage to come back. “I’m ready.” He unconsciously stands at attention, the way John taught him, taking comfort in the familiar pose.

She sighs. “Honey, you’ve gotta relax. You’re not gonna get what you need if you’re all tensed up.” She reaches up on her toes and wraps the cloth around Dean’s eyes, tying it securely behind his head. “There.” She takes him by the arm. “Let’s get you set up.”

The darkness is comforting, and Dean relaxes slightly. Sandra’s hand is warm and confident as it leads him forward.

She turns him into a room filled with voices, and he feels the heat of bodies as he passes them. They turn again, and again, until his mental map of the house loses its coherency. Finally she presses him forward with a hand on his back until he’s lying on his stomach on a padded surface, head turned to the side, and his hands are secured in front of his head. His ankles are caught and pressed into cuffs, spread on either side of the cushion. He’s stretched out, immobile, ass in the air, and he relaxes completely for the first time in weeks. There’s no way out until he give the signal. For once, he’s not in control and doesn’t need to be.

Something brushes his hair, then down his neck. It’s a hand, he realizes, callused and warm. It runs hesitantly down his shoulders and strokes against his side.

Dean hears rustling on his left side and a second hand touches him, them a third. A voice whispers in his  ear, “You’re lovely.”

Another, from his other side, “Look how well behaved you are.”

A third, this one from behind him, “Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Dean shivers under the praise and gentle touches as they continue. He loses count of the hands petting him, stroking him. Tears form in his eyes and he buries his face in the soft material beneath his head.

The touches continues across his back, his buttocks, his legs. He feels warmth crowding around him as he loses count of what hands are where.

A finger nudges at his hole and he presses up against it. It’s slick and narrow and presses in slightly, then withdraws. It presses in deeper  and swirls slightly, then pulls back and Dean lifts himself to follow it, not even caring about the whine he lets out.

Another set of fingers slide underneath him, rubbing against his hip as the thrusting fingers continue. The hand beneath him brushes the head of his cock, and he feels more fingers come to rest on the back of his balls, just below his stretching hole.

There are two fingers working their way into him now, slick with lube, and they’re joined by a third as Dean moans.

Suddenly a new hand strokes his cheek, then presses into his hair. This one is different, and Dean is instantly aware of it and nothing else, not the touches on his cock, the stretch of his hole, the fingers rolling his balls back and forth. This hand has purpose, carding through his hair proprietarily.

It runs down his neck, up his arms, across each finger in turn. Dean can almost feel the curiosity in the touch as he’s explored from head to toe. He melts against the cushion and the warm hands, drifting under the firm strokes.

The other hand joins the first, then a mouth, kissing a soft trail down his back. Dean shivers at the touch, as his thighs are peppered with kisses and licks while the ever-present hands glide over his ass.

Dean notes from far away that the other hands, the hesitant ones, have all disappeared, but that doesn’t matter. This is what he wants. He’s drowning in the feeling of being adored by this stranger, when he hears a voice that jolts him out of his calm.

“Dean.” it’s barely a whisper and a brush of lips against his lower back, but he knows it. He recognizes the voice, the hands, the goddamned stubble pressing into his skin and he pulls upwards against his bonds, whimpering.

The hands--Cas--still, then pull away.

“No, wait-” Dean pulls up again, chasing the touch, “Don’t stop.”

The hands hesitate, hovering just above his skin. Maybe it isn’t Cas, Dean thinks. Maybe it’s just someone who sounds like his angel.

No.

He knows that voice, those hands.

He could say something. He could let Cas know he knows. He could even find out what the angel is doing here and why he’s joined Dean’s private world.

But Cas’s hands are back, running across his sides as fabric-covered thighs brush against Dean’s own bare ones.

Dean presses back, trying to feel more of Cas’s warm flesh through his trousers, and moans when he feels a stiff line rub against his spread hole. Cas lets out a ragged breath as well, hands stuttering to a stop and fingers digging into the meat of Dean’s thighs. He freezes like that for a moment, then deliberately grinds against Dean’s ass, sliding his hard cock down and into Dean’s crack, pressing against his balls with the head.

They both shudder at that, and Dean lets out a groan. “I need you to fuck me, C-” he stops before saying the name.

If Cas is here, when he knows Dean is blindfolded and looking for anonymous sex, maybe there’s a reason. Maybe he doesn’t want Dean to know it’s him.

He’ll go along with it, Dean thinks, relaxing back into Cas’s touches now that the decision’s been made.

"Put your fingers in me," he whispers, turning his head towards Cas. "Open me up for you."

Cas seems to come to a decision as well, gripping Dean’s flesh with new purpose. The hands gripping his hips slide inward, brushing the seam between ass and thighs, before a finger teases along his rim. He's still slick from the earlier attentions and he presses back against Cas. He hears a small whimper of a sound from behind him and echoes it with one of his own as the finger slides in easily up to the last knuckle and withdraws, returning with two that slowly slip into him and meet almost no resistance, brushing his prostate and making him moan and roll his hips into the touch.

Dean is writhing on the cushion now, focused on nothing besides the fingers inside him and the hand still clutching his hip. He's thrusting back into the pressure and a low moan is building in his throat when the fingers suddenly withdraw. He whines and grinds himself against the fabric, looking for some sort of relief, but a strong arm slides under his hips and lifts him until the head of his cock is barely brushing the cloth beneath him.

He hears a zipper, then a rustle, and the next thing he feels is something large and blunt pressing into him as the arm around him lowers him back down.

He can feel Cas's shudder of pleasure through his cock and he holds still as the angel adjusts to the sensation. His hands stroke down Dean's back, shaking, and he whispers, "you feel so good, Dean. I didn't know this would be like this," and runs his trembling hands down Dean’s sides to palm his ass, then grip his hips tightly. He draws back, hesitates, then thrusts back in slowly with a long groan. He tips forward as he draws back, pressing his forehead to Dean's neck and kissing his hairline.

"You are glorious, beautiful, and more righteous than my brothers could have foretold, Dean Winchester." His voice is soft, murmuring into Dean's skin almost as if he cannot stop himself. "Your soul glows brightly in even the darkest hour and leads me to salvation." His slow thrusts continue, and he slides up slightly until his lips are pressed to Dean's ear,  and Dean moans as the next thrust grazes his prostate at just the right angle.

Dean feels the words fill him up, his body warming from the center outwards as moisture leaks from his eyes. He presses his face to the fabric beneath him to try and stay focused where he is, but he’s drifting on a cloud of praise and pleasure.

"You bring me peace, Dean. A peace I haven't known since I was newly formed," Cas gasps as he reaches up a hand to stroke Dean's cheek. "You make me doubt all that I knew to be true and yet..." Dean presses up against him, trying to get closer and feel more skin against his own. Cas kisses his way down Dean's shoulder until his lips rest against the handprint still burned on Dean's skin.

As Cas brushes his lips against the scar, a bolt of pleasure bursts through Dean and he bucks up against Cas. He can feel each individual crease in the angel's lips, every crack; heat rushes in the pit of his stomach, rising in a tide. Cas's tongue runs along the center of the scar just as his hand slips under Dean's body and brushes the head of his cock, and Dean can't hold back the pressure any longer. He cries out Cas's name as he comes in a burst across the cushion and his stomach and the angel's hand.

Cas buries his face in Dean's neck, panting, and presses his come-slick hand to the handprint, whispering Dean's name as he stutters to a stop and floods Dean's body with warmth.

They lie for a moment, Cas pressed to Dean's back, breathing heavily. Cas's hand still rests on Dean's shoulder and his face is pressed against Dean’s jaw. Dean is still spread, arms and ankles tied to the corners of the cushions, blindfolded.

Gentle hands at each arm and leg undo the cuffs, rubbing his wrists and ankles and shoulders and easing his arms down to his sides, then slip away.

Cas's hands move from his shoulders, running up his neck to slide off the blindfold.

Dean blinks in the sudden light and turns his head towards Cas. “Hey there.” He twists and rolls over, wincing as Cas’s softening cock slides out, and wraps an arm around the angel.

Cas has a look on his face that Dean’s not really sure how to interpret. It’s got some surprise in it, for sure, but also what might be terror. He’s avoiding Dean’s gaze, and he looks like he’s not sure if he wants to pull Dean closer or bolt out the door. Dean holds him tighter in response. “You, uh, you ok there, Cas?”

Cas finally looks up at him, eyes wide. “Hello, Dean.” He seems at a loss.

“What’re you doing here, Cas?” asks Dean, and Cas starts to pull away. Dean resists, pressing a kiss to the angel’s temple. “Dude, I’m not complaining! That was awesome.” He rubs Cas’s back in what he hopes is a soothing way. “Just, uh, that kind of came out of nowhere, you know?”

Cas looks away, glancing around the room. “I’ve been watching you for a long time, Dean.” He turns back to Dean, blue eyes fixed on Dean’s face. “I don’t think you know just how much I’ve seen.”

Dean laughs, a little unsure. “I know you’ve been watching me, Cas.” He pauses, realizing what Cas is saying. “Wait, so when I’ve come to places like this...” he glances around the room, at the people drinking and laughing and kissing and whatever else is going on, “you were watching?”

Cas nods.

Dean lets out a long breath. On  the one hand, this has always been something private, something shameful that he didn’t share with anyone. Hell, he barely even let himself think about it.

On the other hand, the thought of Cas watching him, invisible, as he’s fucked by strangers is kind of hot. And that was some really awesome sex.

“Why? Why did you watch me? And why did you join in?”

Cas closes his eyes and rests his forehead on Dean’s shoulder. “I enjoy watching you, Dean. I told you I’d rather be with you than in Heaven or somewhere else on Earth, and it’s true. And-” he pauses, taking a breath. “And I worry about you as well.” He buries his nose in Dean’s neck, breathing deeply. His next words are quiet, and Dean nearly misses them. “I wanted to give you what you needed tonight, for once.”

Dean pulls back, forcing Cas’s face back into his line of sight. “What do you mean?”

Cas’s eyes open and meet Dean’s steadily. “You come to places like this to fill a need that you feel. I... I wanted to be the one to provide it. It’s something I can do for you, Dean.”

Dean feels a sinking sensation in his stomach. “So this was all for me, then? You... you didn’t want this?”

Cas sits up on the edge of the cushion, still pressed along Dean’s side. Dean pulls himself up as well to sit beside him. “That’s not it. I... this was wonderful. It was nothing like I expected and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. I just... being useful to you, it makes me feel good, Dean. Needed.”

Dean gets it, he does, and he puts an arm around Cas’s shoulder. “Yeah, ok.”

Suddenly Cas tenses and turns his head to Dean.

“Dean...” Cas’s brow is furrowed, his eyes confused. “You knew it was me.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t say anything?” The furrow between Cas’s brows deepens.

“Nope.”

Cas sighs. “Are you going to tell me why?”

Dean glances around the room again, at the people studiously pretending not to be eavesdropping. “Can we maybe have this conversation somewhere else? And not covered in jizz, maybe?”

Cas reaches a hand up to Dean’s forehead and suddenly they’re both clean, clothed and sitting in the Impala on opposite sides.

Dean sighs. This wasn’t quite what he meant. He leans his head back against the seat. “I just...” he gives a little laugh, and shakes his head. “Maybe I just wanted it, you know?” He stares at his hands. “I’ve been doing this for, uh, a long time. I guess you know that if you’ve been... watching, though?”

Cas nods, still looking a little lost.

“Maybe I was tired it only being strangers. Maybe I didn’t realize the strangers weren’t the important part of what I needed, or something.”

Dean shakes his head again and feels a little cold despite his clothes and the summer heat. “Cas...” He glances towards the angel and sighs, lifting an arm. “C’mere.”

Watching Dean carefully, Cas slides over on the seat until he’s pressed against Dean’s side.

“You don’t just zap somebody out of the afterglow, ok? We gotta work on this for next time, dude.”

Cas looks startled. “Next time?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s face falls a little, doubt showing through. “If you want there to be a next time, I mean.”

Cas’s eyes widen, and he leans forward and kisses Dean, then draws back, leaving his hands resting on Dean’s shoulders. “I would like that very much, Dean.”


End file.
